


No Smoke Without Fire?

by LemonKith



Series: Our Reflection in the TV [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: A serious reaction fic instead of crack, About Gotham set in the world of the comics if that makes sense, M/M, Prompt: Crossover/AU, Riddlebird Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 21:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14922989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonKith/pseuds/LemonKith
Summary: When the TV seriesGothambegins airing, the people of the real Gotham city pay moderate attention. When it starts asserting some interesting, romantic feelings between two of the city’s most infamous residents the buzz begins to grow however.The Riddlerdoeshang around the Iceberg Lounge more than any of the other rogues, doesn’t he? And the Penguindoesalways treat him very favourably... Maybe the script-writersdoknow something...Edward and Oswald watch the rumours and fascination around them grow with amusement, yet Oswald can’t quite avoid re-evaluating their friendship in light of the show as it progresses.





	No Smoke Without Fire?

**Author's Note:**

> In case the summary isn’t quite clear, this is about the ‘real’ Penguin and Riddler (based on the comics and a bit of the animated series) and their reaction if the TV show _Gotham_ was airing in their world as it is in ours.
> 
> That said, I have no idea about how they handled Bruce Wayne being Batman: Either they know and don’t care or there’s some made-up, fill-in character there in place of his true identity. That’s not important to this story so let’s just quietly push that matter under the nearest rug.

When Fox’s new series _Gotham_ was first announced, most people of the real Gotham city only batted half an eyelid. TV series and movies about life in their less than normal city had grown commonplace over the years since a man dressed as an oversized bat started running around the streets after one mentally unstable clown and then somehow the rest of _them_ followed. Between not knowing who Batman was under the cowl but half of the population wanting to be him he made the ideal power fantasy, and the half who didn’t want to be Batman wanted to be the colourful and ‘misunderstood’ criminals he fought. Well, the super-criminals brought in enough tourism money to fix all the stuff they were always destroying and created plenty of jobs all over the city so Gotham’s administration had slowly given up complaining about the reputation and attention they garnered and instead embracing it.

When the first images and trailers for _Gotham_ came out, the people of Gotham deigned to bat a full eyelid now. Turning back the years on figures like Selina Kyle and Jim Gordon gave it a little something different, enough to stand it out from the crowd and get them interested in watching for once.

As it began airing the interest only grew, especially when, as the show passed into season two and then three-

“The Penguin and the Riddler sure are growing close.”

“Yeah, but they wouldn’t actually go _there_ with them in a big budget, mainstream show like this. ...Would they?”

“They’re really becoming _very_ close friends.”

“You know, I think the Penguin might actually...”

“No way, would he ever...!”

“Oh my God, I think he actually does...!”

The rogues of Gotham often dropped by the Iceberg Lounge, when they were out of Arkham at least, and were some of the only permanent names on the list of allowed queue-jumpers for such an in-demand establishment. So long as it wasn’t the night they’d committed some illegal misdemeanour and come looking for sanctuary, they were practically encouraged to come considering the number of potential patrons who thought they might be able to catch a glimpse of Poison Ivy in the chlorophyll-green flesh or even get a selfie with Harley Quinn for their Instagram if they were lucky. Each had their own signature drink created by them uniquely for the Lounge, displayed on a special ‘Rogues’ List’ board by the bar, that even beat out the sheer classics of martinis and the like in sales. Often they would donate old pieces of memorabilia from their stunts or costumes they no longer wore for display, their closest thing to a charity write-off for when tax season came round. It worked out all round, although the Lounge obviously made sure it got slightly more out of the arrangements.

So it was hardly stop-the-presses news for Edward Nygma to be sat on one of the stools that lined the table around the sides of the live penguin enclosure one night, watching the couple of king penguins dive about in the water to get their food, for the benefit of exercise for them and entertainment for the humans watching. He was mostly tilting his drink side-to-side rather than drinking from it, clinking it gently and slowly against the sparkling, ice-like tabletop like a beat to accompany his murmured humming. It was almost as if he was waiting for something. Or maybe someone.

Oswald couldn’t be sure whom – You could never be sure of many things when it came to Edward he’d learnt over the timeless-feeling years they’d known each other – He didn’t know if it was him, but he also didn’t know it was _not_ him. That was the justification he gave himself as a safe cover to walk over.

Edward gave a slight enough incline of his head to show he’d recognised Oswald’s approach by the slightly waddling gait. Only when a drink was placed down in front of Oswald, the same pale yet somehow still garishly green concoction Edward also had, that he turned to give it a pointed look, then looked from their shared drink choice to Oswald with a raised eyebrow. “Something you want to tell me, Oswald? Over dinner at the mansion around 8, perhaps?”

Oswald rolled his eyes at the suggestive and oh-so-smug tone. “You watched it then?”

“ _Gotham_? I do like to take an interest in everything that thinks it can replicate my brilliance, check my name and image aren’t being degraded by some halfwit’s attempt at impersonating me.”

Oswald sipped his drink while Edward was prattling on, the swirled mix of melted mint and dark chocolate ice cream with green M&Ms and a dark chocolate pocky stick in a martini glass that comprised a Crème de Énigme, the Riddler’s signature drink, and promptly remembered why he rarely ordered this one again; why Edward would ever want to protect this particular reputation he’d cultivated... “I’ve had the pleasure of a few fervent fans asking about our friendship in it, but I must confess I didn’t foresee this direction it’s now been taken in.”

Edward lightly shrugged. “TV moves with the times, thankfully. Although, if you are aware of the rumours buzzing around, you might not want to sit by me right now.” He leant in close to Oswald, suggestively close. “No smoke without fire, and all that.”

“Smoke?” Oswald retorted. “This is dry ice from a fog machine, not smoke.” Still, nerves got him to glance around and note a number of staring eyes and excited titters hidden behind hands. “Oh really...!”

Edward smirked, crunching some of the M&Ms from his drink. “Well, you’re showing an obvious endorsement of the show.” Sighing that he needed to spell it out, “It’s either that or you’re going bald.” Oswald’s hand shot to his hair, a dark scowl above his eyes but a light blush on his cheeks. It had gone from plainly styled to swept back with fashionable faux-carelessness these days, not the same style as Robin Lord Taylor’s but the same aesthetic nonetheless. “Enjoy our little emo-goth boy, do we?”

“Yes, well... He’s more flattering than most depictions of yours truly,” Oswald said, hand settling back around his drink. It managed to draw Edward’s attention, the way the two sets of fused fingers more befitting of flippers tapped against the glass. “...Sometimes I wonder if that me look worse in comparison, though...” he murmured rather minutely, chasing it down with a mouthful of his drink to wash the words away.

Edward stirred his drink around with his half-eaten pocky for a moment, never one to openly portray he didn’t know what to say to something, before putting a finger to his lips to mouth so reminiscent of his own actor. “If that is the case I suppose I should thank mine for making me look even better by comparison.” He heard Oswald snort in amusement and ignored him. “...I did used to be more of a dork like that. It’s not... always comfortable being reminded of that time.”

Oswald looked up in surprise at such a personal admission from the Riddler. “I doubt even you would have been capable of being _that_ much of a dork, Edward,” he wrapped his consoling up inside a joke, not wishing to offend with the implication Edward needed the comfort.

Edward laughed. “At the company party, the one year I actually went because it was a costume party and I had one I was dying to impress everyone with, I went in cosplay as a video game character.”

Oswald resisted his learnt instinct to file that away as potential blackmail material. “I thought your previous employment was at a video game company. Hardly embarrassing, surely?”

“They informed me the point of the party was to forget about work; I replied I’d rather spend the time at work developing our games if that was the case. By half an hour into the party, when they were all busy intoxicating their worthless brains with liquid brain-poison,” He swirled his defiantly non-alcoholic drink for emphasis, “I snuck away to my desk and spent the rest of the evening working, doing unpaid overtime on Christmas Eve. Apparently that’s not appropriate social behaviour, although back then such things weren’t considered cute and ‘adorkable’ yet. Even my bosses took issue with the ‘antisocial’ behaviour.”

“From the sounds of it you were better than the lot of them, far better off as sovereign only unto yourself.”

“Ah, indeed! If only the world was filled with a few more people on our level, instead of,” Edward simply cast his gaze around the room with somewhat of a sneer. Oswald raised an eyebrow at the ‘our’ but it went uncaught. “The hair looks nice, Ozzie, but I couldn’t advise the hair dye and make-up at your age,” Edward added, a smirk slinking across his face briefly.

Oswald’s feathers ruffled at the teasing, but one of his waitstaff interrupted to ask permission to turn out a rather unpleasantly drunk young socialite at that moment and Edward had disappeared before he got the chance to turn back to him and reply.

As the drama on the show continued and the tittering comments and questions only continued to grow, Oswald noticed Edward began dropping by the Iceberg Lounge more often. They didn’t always talk about the show, but it was always the night after _Gotham_ aired and never any other unless the Riddler had specific business.

These social calls didn’t appear to be for Oswald given how Edward would happily amuse himself for hours if left, but when he always left right after their conversations as if his business was now concluded.

Each visit was different. A riddle to keep Oswald on his toes perhaps, or maybe just simple obnoxiousness. It seemed almost game-like, to come down one week and find Edward in the mood for cultured conversation about post-modernism, then the next week find a scene of behaviour more befitting of a precocious five year old. For instance...

Oswald leant casually against the guard rail fence around the penguins’ enclosure that Edward had blatantly ignored to climb over, crouching on the rim inside and holding out what looked like an anchovy in temptation to one of the Humboldt penguins that was swimming around nearby. It looked as if it was wondering if this large creature with very green plumage could be trusted or not, or so Oswald’s penguin empathy thought, and he didn’t blame it.

Clearing his throat, and earning a shifting of Edward’s eyes attention briefly, “My, who would have thought the great and mighty Riddler, for all his intelligence and puzzles, was actually illiterate?” Oswald rapped his knuckles against the ‘DO NOT FEED THE PENGUINS’ sign very largely and clearly on display right beside where Edward had chosen to hop the fence.

Edward turned to him with a cheeky smirk. “Please. I saw the sign; I’m not feeding them if I don’t intend to actually let them have the fish, am I?”

“That’s cruel, Edward,” Oswald said, although without any true force behind it.

“I do seem to enjoy being cruel to penguins by tempting them with what I won’t let them have, don’t I? I guess it’s becoming a habit of mine.” Oswald chose to assume he was talking about _Gotham_. And he chose to read nothing into the fact the penguin finally swam over to Edward at that point, unable to resist any longer. Edward swiftly put the anchovy away in a tiny Tupperware box that slipped back into his suit’s inner pocket, then scooped up the poor penguin he’d tempted into his arms before it knew what was happening. He held its wet body away from his clothes but nonetheless managed to turn to Oswald holding it as if it was some prize he’d won at a carnival game. “These are Humboldt penguins, correct?”

“Correct.” Oswald took stock of the two king penguins and two other Humboldts that had seen sense and stayed away from the human peacock on the side over here, all other Spheniscidae inhabitants safely accounted for therefore.

“The ones noted for forming gay couples to raise offspring sometimes?”

Of course he would know them for _that_. “There have been a few examples of male pair bonds adopting abandoned eggs to raise in the same manner as heterosexual couples in zoos, yes,” Oswald answered. “They are one of the preferred and popular penguin species to keep in captivity given their tolerance for heat and humans, however; you may simply be looking at an example of selection bias.”

“Oh?” Edward said with pleasure, and Oswald instantly knew he’d said something he’d be regretting in five seconds. “So you’re saying _all_ kinds of penguins have a predilection to homosexuality then?”

Yes, definitely an admission worth regretting.

Oswald simply sighed, watching as Edward turned around the penguin that had honked indignantly to now face him so he could give it a considering look-over. “Do they have names?”

“Of course.” Oswald indicated a smaller sign down the fence of the enclosure that listed them. “That one you’re currently companionably canoodling with is called Alexander.”

Edward frowned at that. “There’s two males and one female Humboldt, correct?” Sadly that was the case now, which is why anyone who attempted to feed them these days received a lifetime ban from the Lounge, unless they were the Riddler seemingly- Wait, he must have read the sign with their names on to know that. He’d only asked their names to bring up this topic, hadn’t he? Which meant he had a purpose, and things never boded well once the Riddler had a purpose in mind. “I have a proposal: Let’s rename the two males ‘Robin’ and ‘Cory’; then they’re bound to become gay around each other. And the female one should be called ‘Smaylor’ so it’s gay even then. It’s what our actors would want!”

Oswald leant harder against the fence, pressing a hand to his forehead at the beginnings of a headache coming on. “I see you’re in one of your Imp of the Perverse moods tonight, Edward,” he muttered more to himself. “Or perhaps Imp of the Perverted is more apt...”

The penguin in Edward’s arms, the slightly taller and lighter-coloured of the males destined to become Cory, honked at Edward again as if in agreement.

Either way, when Oswald passed by the penguin enclosure sign at closing time that night and saw the laminated sheet of their names had somehow been replaced with Edward’s new ‘suggestions’ he gave the order to his staff to leave it be. He did draw the line when he walked by some weeks later to find the male and female king penguins had been renamed ‘Eddie’ and ‘Ozzie’, in that respective order. (The addition definitely wasn’t there until fifteen minutes before closing time at most, ready for Oswald’s nightly inspection. No one but him and perhaps his staff would have seen it)

Or another evening Oswald would come by to find Edward playing on his phone, as he so often was when sat alone here. That evening he asked precisely what Edward was doing that always had him so engaged, and received the rather proud reply, “I’m playing _Pokémon Go_ ; the Iceberg Lounge is a gym.”

Thoroughly perplexed, Oswald looked around in real life and saw nothing there. “A gym?”

“Not that sort,” Edward derided the implication. “Think of it like a fortress to take over. Most of the people who take over here put terrible choices in as defenders, totally inappropriate for the Lounge’s theme; I like to try and keep some standards up by installing Ice or Flying types for you.”

Unsure if that deserved a thank you, Oswald took in the large, blue bird that looked as if it was half-composed of clouds in some sort of blue and grey environment that Edward showed off to him briefly. Given it was flying it wasn’t a penguin at least, but he’d admit a certain aesthetic appropriateness that endeared him despite the childishness of the whole thing. “Only you would come to such an esteemed adult establishment, Edward Nygma, to do nothing but play a children’s video game on your mobile phone.” He hadn’t meant it to come out as scorning, only fond mockery, but from the look on Edward’s face he’d taken it that way nonetheless.

Edward scowled, reserving his eyes for the screen of his phone as he tapped and swiped through whatever he was doing on there with a hurt petulance. “...I had to steal a Game Boy, one of the original black and white ones, from another kid at school – His parents were rich; they bought him another one – just to play the original Pokémon games. I played my copy of _Pokémon Blue_ so much the Game Boy’s rechargeable battery pack lost all ability to hold charge. I continued to play even as I needed to sit by the plug and play directly off that, even as the charge cable became so kinked and broken I had to hold still in just the right position or it’d die and I’d lose everything.” Edward had set the phone down, resting it in his hands to simply stare at like a small miracle. “You’re only 10 years old in the original Pokémon games, yet you could defeat anyone no matter how big or cruel they were when it came to a Pokémon battle; all you needed to be was smart enough. Excuse me for wanting to escape to a world like that growing up with the life I had.”

“I... I’m sorry,” Oswald said, although it felt rather an understatement.

After a moment Edward simply shrugged, letting a smile return to his face as he flapped his hands with autistic glee; it wasn’t something he did often, or that Oswald had been privy to see at least. Perhaps these were simply more comfortable times though. “When they add the next generation later this year I’ll finally be able to put a penguin Pokémon in to guard the Lounge for you!” he continued brightly. “I’ll even nickname it after you!”

Sometimes Edward didn’t even need to say, “Riddle me this,” for Oswald to feel like the things he said, like that, were a puzzle to solve, ones made of emotions and feelings instead of the logic-based ones he set the Bat.

A lot of things about Edward were riddles once you got to know him, or if you _tried_ to get to know him perhaps. The difference was these appeared to be riddles the Riddler didn’t want solved, that he took every opportunity to draw attention away from with his flashy, green and purple question-marked ones.

His age, for instance. By Oswald’s reckoning, Edward could be anywhere from 25 to 40 going by appearance. Or by behaviour really, given how he slipped seamlessly between the boy-like Eddie who played video games and messed around with penguins and the mature, considered Edward who held conversations with Oswald with all the grace and wisdom of another man with very nearly five decades to his name, who would prefer to sit at the bar and watch while the more hot-headed, younger rogues they considered their friends ran about like nothing more than school children.

He’d asked once and simply received a, “What age do you think I am?” that Edward had simply responded to with a laugh when Oswald indeed made such a laughably wide guess.

All that talk about Pokémon, for all he hadn’t understood most of it, gave him a clue though: Oswald knew enough about computers to look up the time Edward had spoken of was most likely around 1995-2000. But given phrases like ‘growing up’ and the simple reference to ‘school’, not a grade, meant Edward could have been anywhere from 5-15 during that five-year span, which only brought him back to 25-40 once again.

For all the legal name changes, document destruction and fact he’d kill anyone he heard using that name, it often felt there still was an Edward Nashton behind the E. Nygma deliberately. Fitting for a man built around creating mystery, you might say, yet enough time spent in his presence had given Oswald the impression there was a point at which Edward stopped being the Riddler, literally in this case perhaps. It was as subtle as a choice of names, so like how an outsider didn’t know it was always ‘Edward’ not ‘Ed’ – A leak from Arkham had told Oswald that was the name Edward’s father had used for him. ‘Eddie’ was the name his mother had used; the honour of being able to borrow her name for him was one Oswald was among the small circle gifted to – Was it layers, reflections in mirrors or shadows that Edward hid?

Maybe Oswald was simply overthinking his friend though. Especially when Ed simply dropped by to say things like-

“Wow, the Nygmobblepot tag has just exploded on AO3 these past few weeks! We’re far in the lead now.” Which led into a twenty minute explanation of fanfiction and shipping- Well, no, Oswald had heard of the idea but to have it confirmed as an actual thing, not the internet hoax he’d thought it was...

Oswald spared a glance at Smaylor swimming around merrily in the centre of the room, entirely oblivious to the ridiculous predilections of the human species that had landed her with such an unfortunate name. Not that Oswald couldn’t see the credible evidence behind such an idea after Edward had shown him even one recent behind-the-scenes interview with their actors, but still.

And he certainly didn’t need Edward sending him a list of fic recommendations to ‘tide him over’ while _Gotham_ was on its brief Christmas break, not when that came accompanied with the realisation that Edward had almost certainly spent some of his free time reading these things in order to be giving personalised comments like ‘I just really love how ruthless and murderous you are in this one’ or ‘The riddles in this one are actually of a standard I’d be willing to make use of in real life’, because, God, what did _that_ mean if Edward enjoyed reading these things? (Edward never sent him any of the higher-rated ones that had actual sex, although some had kissing or the implication of sex, despite Oswald knowing they existed; what did _that_ mean?)

Come the mid-season hiatus, Edward’s visits ceased just as they had over Christmas. Oswald held out hope, scouting the Lounge particularly the first couple of weeks in hope – It was simply a routine thing, that’s all – before giving up and accepting things returning to normal.

At least he had an amusing surprise for when _Gotham_ , and therefore Edward, returned.

Oswald nodded at the new board affixed to the wall by the light snack bar, enjoying the innocent surprise that showed Edward hadn’t seen or heard of it yet.

Edward got up straight away to go investigate with all the fascinated, potential suspicion of a cat that had spotted a new addition to its territory. As he stood before it close enough to read the gold on black lines upon it, Oswald came over to join him and appreciate the frown on Edward’s face turning into a pleased hum.

An under-the-table initiative of one of his bartenders that Oswald had brought public, some regular patrons who were viewers had begun placing bets on the outcome of the Nygmobblepot relationship on _Gotham,_ since it was patently obvious in such a schlocky drama where no one thus far had achieved the task of staying dead that Oswald wasn’t dead either:

  * They get together – Happy ending (Bets doubled if they get married)
  * They get together – Unhappy ending
  * Edward kills Oswald
  * Oswald kills Edward
  * Oswald dies for good this time sacrificing himself for Edward
  * Edward sacrifices himself for Oswald
  * Edward dies in Oswald’s arms just like both of his parents
  * They’re just queerbaiting



And at the bottom, in a different handwriting:

  * Jervis murders the show’s writers for _yet another_ sadistic, sexually perverted interpretation of him and the show never finishes



Oswald looked to Edward humming over the options and odds, waiting for his pick. “I _am_ tempted by the Jervis option,” Edward eventually said; “they truly have made yet another mess of him. I don’t know why they didn’t age him down like Jonathan, pair the two of them up perhaps; the two of them actually have a relationship in real life after all.”

“I hardly think the _Gotham_ writers care for a respectful resemblance of real life,” Oswald had to say, looking over the options again himself. “Going to place any money down?”

Edward still had the corner of his hand to his chin, considering. “Is it only up to the end of this season?”

“I’m not sure. Whenever we get some sort of resolution, I believe.”

“Whatever state we’re in when Fox cancels the show, you mean,” Edward said. “A positive, queer relationship on one of their shows that isn’t simply a lesbian relationship for the male-gaze would almost certainly get them to cancel the show, considering this is Fox we’re talking about...” But that trailed-off thought was all Edward gave as any form of answer to what he thought about the whole thing.

But in almost all cases they were guaranteed some sort of ending together.

In real life they weren’t a perfectly crafted yin and yang destined, or perhaps doomed, to always be entwined until some star-crossed end though. There were plenty of parts of each other’s lives they were indifferent to: Oswald cared neither way about the fact Edward chose to throw his life into riddles and his free time things like video games and getting up to no good on the internet; it was Edward’s life, and that was not his concern. Similarly, Edward refused to fathom the appeal of running a night club where people came to destroy their brains with alcohol and waste time simply talking to each other about things instead of doing them. Or he’d just have to sit by if Oswald was talking to Jervis about England, things like grammar schools, _Private Eye_ magazine – Sadly apparently nothing to do with detectives – and lots of places ending in -shire that he didn’t know about.

In _Gotham_ they would always either feel love, hate or some passion-filled combination of the two towards one another. In real life Edward would make a comment pointing out his coming by was good for business out of nowhere. Oswald would ask why he cared about Oswald’s business doing well. And Edward would simply give him a smirking wink and sip his drink before launching straight off into some other topic. They were whatever that sort of exchange was. A special kind of friends perhaps, but still simply friends at the end of it all.

After the hiatuses, Oswald can therefore guess what would happen after the season 3 finale coming next week.

In a city like Gotham a 24-hour news station was a much-used necessity. The Iceberg Lounge had a large TV permanently tuned to the station to alert patrons to emergency situations, although it was mostly kept turned down low and subtitled beside the smaller drinks bar, something for anyone drinking alone to pass the time with and maybe strike up conversation over.

It was an easy agreement on Oswald’s part when Harley texted him if they could have a big watch-along party for the double-episode finale at the Lounge, having heard the claims she’d finally be featured on the show.

The event only got a few days’ advertisement but they were turning away people over an hour before it began simply for capacity reasons when Monday evening finally came. “Wow! People really wanna watch it with us, huh?” Harley had cheerfully congratulated herself as she pushed past Oswald to her seat – The rogues, being the main attraction, had the best seats in the house – And, yes, if he’d known watch-along parties would draw in this number of people, and considering all the drinks they’d sell each time during the advert breaks...

Oswald was left standing by the entrance until five minutes before showtime by dint of his foolish idea to wait for Edward to join them. The Riddler only deigned to grace the Lounge with his presence at the last minute, greeting Oswald with a simple, “Planning to spend the whole evening over there, Oswald?” as if he’d somehow _known_ of all things.

Maybe he had, actually; there were plenty of other rogues here who had phones Edward could have been in contact with. Great...

Well, at least he’d thought to reserve their comfortable, centre seats and get Jonathan to guard them in return for the seats directly behind, a syringe of fear toxin dangling blatantly from one hand as he chatted to Jervis at his side.

Edward threw himself down into his seat first, looking instantly back over his shoulder at Jervis with a cheeky grin. “How’s the view back there?”

“Very funny, Dormouse,” Jervis muttered, swapping places with the much taller Jonathan to sit behind Oswald instead.

“Oh, sorry. Shall I move?” Edward made a move to switch seats with Oswald but was pushed back, short-person solidarity activating in Oswald who checked that, yes, Jervis could see comfortably over him. Edward continued to grin smugly anyway, until he got a heel in the back of his head from one of Jonathan’s boots on behalf of his boyfriend.

Smoothing his hair back down, and accepting his drink from one of the waitstaff who’d made their way through the crowd, “Oh, I didn’t expect to see you here, Victor,” Edward remarked more courteously as he settled down.

Seated on the floor, large and cumbersome suit politely folded into as small as space as possible, Victor Fries looked back over his shoulder in reply. “I heard I had a large part in these final episodes,” he said in his low, ice-cracked voice. “I find getting out of my laboratory occasionally helps when I am stuck on my research.”

“I’m sure you’ll make progress again soon.” Victor nodded gratefully. “I’m glad they’ve treated you well in this show at least; you deserve it.”

“Thank you.”

“So, can I rest my drink on you to keep it cool while I watch?” Edward flashed a grin at him.

Victor’s eyes managed to narrow even more frostily than usual.

“Good Lord,” Oswald spoke up witheringly beside him; “I believe capturing the true extent of your obnoxiousness is beyond any writer...”

Edward simply turned the grin to him.

“Shaddup already!” Harley leant over from her seat, waving an arm as close as she could get to shush them. “Tha adverts are nearly done! It’s startin’!”

The beginning of the show did indeed shut Edward up, after he was done criticising the ‘previously on...’ on the grounds that anyone who had only tuned in for the final two episodes deserved to have no idea what was going on.

Most of the rogues remained respectfully quiet at first, immersed in the show for the first couple of quarters. As the few comments began to grow, lingering over from conversations during the advert breaks, the immersion began to break and more began to flow, only exponentially increasing from there. They remained respectfully intermittent enough for the other patrons watching, but the whole desirability of this event was getting to watch it with the real life rogues and getting to hear the sorts of things they yelled at their TV when watching at home. A few cocky idiots thought everyone would be just as interested to hear their comments, but a couple of good threats or a 10/6 card to the head and they soon shut up. Comments directed at the real life rogues, well-designed ones designed to prompt a witty or behind-the-scenes reply were acceptably encouraged. But mostly everyone was here just to watch the schlocky drama unfold.

And, as the mutual plans to capture and kill each other progressed, potentially collect their bets on the Oswald/Edward storyline.

Oswald dared a few glances at Edward beside him as they watched together. He seemed eager to get on with their scenes given his bored discomfort and muttered, “Come on already!” comments during the Ra’s al Ghul and Lazarus Pit scenes particularly. Between all the comments of Harley’s when she was going to show up already and Jervis being in the bizarre position of rooting for himself to die such was his disgust with his character, Oswald mostly stayed quiet; he didn’t have the brashness to yell things out and think people would be interested to hear his thoughts on the whole matter.

Well, except that the show managed to somehow find a way to have a third parental figure of Oswald’s die in his arms when Fish Mooney died; “They really don’t want me to have a single positive relationship in my life, do they? At least I’m getting a lot of exercise holding up all these dead loved ones...” He didn’t really say it for the smattering of tittering laughs, just to... He didn’t know. Make a point, he supposed?

Was that how people saw him, or what they thought he deserved? Or was it all just TV, completely detached from anything to do with the actual him aside from providing a convenient name and image?

None of the other rogues seemed worried about such things as they cracked off jokes about what they’d done in stolen police cars and placing informal bets on how many of the characters who’d been electrocuted, stabbed or had their throats cut weren’t actually dead and would be back next season.

When they finally got to the scene at the docks though- “Ooh! This is it! Quiet everyone!” Edward called, whilst of all things throwing his arm around Oswald’s shoulder to pull them into close embrace.

Frankly he would have preferred them all to keep talking through it, break the immersion and keep it apparent this was just a TV show, that Edward didn’t want to kill him, that even their friendship wasn’t going to have a happy ending, that-

...Well, he hadn’t been expecting _that_.

Oswald looked up to Edward’s face beside him – After a glance across Victor who looked as if he may have been smirking slightly at getting a little revenge for earlier – Edward’s smile was small as he watched, a little curious; it maybe looked as if it had been left there to save a place for whatever emotion he was actually feeling. But every emotion Edward ever felt always made its compulsive way out eventually. And all he said in the end, once the TV was muted for the final advert break was-

“Well, I guess all bets are _frozen_ until next season!”

All the rogues and the few civilians who dared groaned. A lot of people, even ones who wouldn’t have walked on the same side of the street as the Riddler any other day, threw coasters or similarly harmless items at Edward as he laughed it up.

He wasn’t sad about it, Oswald observed only to himself as he brushed the collateral damage off his person, about the idea of their friendship ending up like that.

It was just a TV show. What did it actually matter anyway?

Oswald let himself enjoy the final part, particularly the aptness that the first episode they aired at the Iceberg Lounge was the one where they got to witness the birth of its counterpart on the show.

In equilibrium, Harley’s irritation grew as she still had yet to feature on the show, then blossomed into sudden excitement as she realised that meant she had to be the big ending note to end the whole season. In the final moments, as a familiar, black-cloaked spotlight-stealer made his first appearance though- “That liar! That lyin’ little- I demand a refund!” Harley hurled a coaster harmlessly as the proto-Batman on the screen gave way to the end credits. “He was tha one that promised an’ all! He did it just ta get my hopes up, then steal my spotlight for himself!” And with a mighty, “Hmph!” she threw herself back into her seat, arms folded and tongue stuck out in scowling petulance.

Everything began to dissolve and disperse as the credits ran and the TV was switched back to the news – It was the same news about Firefly having set fire to the kitchens at Blackgate to no useful avail as earlier, only now with the added amusement someone had thought to tagline the whole thing ‘BBQ Bonanza at Blackgate’ – Edward and Victor were discussing the scientific outcomes of him being frozen in ice like that, not that either believed realism would be paid any heed when it came time to thaw the Riddler out. Jonathan was commiserating Harley, in his own, rather unemotional way, at having also been totally ignored by the show for two seasons now too, while Jervis was reminding her this might be a good thing all things considered.

Oswald made his way to the bathroom, having been a little too busy holding up appearances and conversations during the past couple of advert breaks. When he re-emerged, despite fifteen minutes of scouting around between fans trying to grab him for reaction comments to no doubt post on their Facebooks or whatever, Edward was nowhere to be seen anymore.

He might as well have been encased in a block of ice somewhere the way he simply disappeared off the map with _Gotham_ over until the autumn. Although he still replied to texts, and Oswald saw him across the Lounge once – Once again he pulled a disappearing act before he could make his way over – their chats simply dried up. It was disappointing really, that it took a TV show to give them a reason to hang out – When had Oswald actually started looking forward to hanging out with Edward? And when had he started using terms like ‘hang out’? – but that seemed to be the case.

But it was never the show Edward actually came by to talk about, was it? And he was back to big, flashy crimes that had the police and Batman on him a week after season 3 ended, and back in Arkham because of them soon after that; it was almost as if he had waited.

Maybe it was fanciful thinking, but maybe Edward felt as if he needed a reason to come by? Who knew how the social parts of his mind worked? It was another of those unadvertised riddles.

Come September, and with a well-timed breakout at Arkham- “We can have watch-alongs again, right Ozzie?!” Harley asked, leaning on the edge of the counter so she could bounce up and down in her excitement.

“Yes, yes. I’ve already made the arrangements, my dear,” he waved it off as little bother – With the money last time had brought in, combined with the lower and slightly less backhanded licensing fees for public broadcasting this more-prepared time around, it was less than no bother considering the profits – “It’ll be a weekly fixture, and as a guest of honour you have free, priority admittance of course.” They rogues always did, but he did still make them pay for their drinks.

“Yay! This is gonna be so cool!” She threw herself around him in a quick but utterly winding hug. “I was readin’ articles an’ all tha good money’s on me finally puttin’ in an appearance this time! I can’t wait!”

Harley could always be counted on as the earliest arrival each coming Thursday evening, hours early but always up for holding the equivalent of some sort of book club-cum-forum on the show’s development and predictions about this week in the hour before airtime. As loud as it was, Oswald’s business acumen couldn’t deny the commercial sense in capitalising on some hardcore side-interest of a group in order to develop in them a habit of regularly visiting your establishment; it was a basic business tactic, although he didn’t think Harley was aware of that fact and what she was inadvertently doing for him. She was enjoying herself though; no need to stop her or interfere if it benefited them both.

Word having gotten around about season 3’s finale watch-along combined with better promotion, the eager crowds vying for entry to season 4’s premiere literally doubled on last time. “You ought to be selling tickets for something this popular,” Pamela stopped in passing to mention as everyone began taking their seats for showtime.

“Ah, but the perceived, palpable potential that anyone can attend such a glamorous event produces more ‘buzz’; more people who know someone lucky enough to get in, more who thus think they might be able to get in themselves therefore drive up the relative scarcity and with it value.” Seeing he was boring her with the Economics 101, “Ticket holders would feel like entitled masters of the place, my waitstaff as their servants. A free-for-all means they’re entitled to nothing, beholden to our graciousness, and I’d wager feeling favoured by the finger of fortune makes the evening more enjoyable for them as well.”

“Feathering your nest whilst convincing the people you’re taking feathers from that it’s a privilege for them to be included in your nest,” She stirred the snake-shaped twist of dried liquorice root in her Cobra Lily before raising her signature drink to him; “never change, Ozzie.”

He made a flick-like waving gesture, shooing her away to sink into her reserved beanbag beside Harley. Half-heartedly eavesdropping on Jonathan and Jervis’ conversation behind him, Oswald looked to the entrance again for the one destined to fill the seat beside him. Okay, so he hadn’t informed Edward he was specifically invited, nor of the event at all, but Edward made a point of knowing _everything_ that went on in this city and had no doubt picked up the news from nowhere. He was just being fashionably, attention-seekingly late like last time, wasn’t he? Oswald refused to entertain the little game, facing resolutely forward until Edward finally dropped into the seat beside him two minutes before showtime. “Cutting it fine, my good fellow.”

“You should know I wouldn’t miss this for anything, Ozzie.” Those were the first words Edward said to him after three months of complete absence from each other’s lives.

Oswald tutted, needing the moment before he was able to look Edward in his cheerfully grinning face. He simply softened at the sight, giving up on saying anything about it and sitting back to enjoy the show.

It was much the same as last time, the appeal of an improvised director’s commentary by the rogues, as it were, the main draw while people used the advert breaks to purchase drinks and fight over the bathrooms in time to get back for the next part. They were down Victor Fries this time, not that the fellow had been a particularly large contributor to the commentary last time, and Harvey Dent remained absent but at least they also had the mercy of still being Joker-free. Oswald deeply hoped it would remain that way, counting on the fact the Joker took no interest in any Batman except the real one so long as he had that one’s attention.

There was little for him to personally say about the first episode – Although, those crime-licences... A younger, not-yet-reformed Oswald would have certainly stolen that idea for real – but Jonathan and Jervis filled up half of the commentary being excited Jonathan was finally back, while the rest of the rogues filled the other half with some sort of competition Edward started to make as many terrible ice-based jokes as possible. Honestly, such questionably lovable children...

The audience lapped it up though, and so long as that remained the case Oswald could get comfortably accustomed to this weekly feature. Plus, it provided the opportunity for one little, surprise amusement...

It was a very hesitantly optimistic Oswald who looked around the Iceberg Lounge the following evening of that first episode, giving up at first until a few hours in when-

“Well.” Edward, sat at one of his most favoured spots around the penguins’ enclosure, stared pointedly down at his drink as Oswald sat to join him. It wasn’t his signature drink, instead some fruit juice concoction, which meant it came complete with ice cubes. Using his little, decorative umbrella – His staff had thought, or been threatened, to give him a green one – Edward poked the one ice cube not shaped like the club’s standard of icebergs and penguins to the edge of the glass and out, letting it tumble and clink onto the table’s smooth, clean surface. It sat in its little puddle of mixed juice and steadily melting body fluids, the small rice paper face of the Riddler trapped in the centre of the ice screaming silently at both of them. “Well,” Edward said again.

“One of the younger bartenders brought the idea to me this afternoon after seeing last night’s episode,” Oswald explained. “She decorates cakes or something in her free time so had edible paper and edible ink to create these somehow.” He waved off the specifics he didn’t particularly care about. “I’m suitably surprised there were any left for you; supposedly they went viral online almost instantly and we’ve been selling drinks at twice the normal rate tonight.”

“Hmm...” Edward poked the ice cube with his tiny umbrella again, sending the tiny face into a slow spin.

Ah, perhaps he had simply picked up the viral fuss online in his usual, digital panopticon ways and come by to see it for himself.

“So, apparently I’m what you see on Jonathan’s fear toxin,” Edward went on, leaning an elbow on the counter as he dropped his umbrella back into his drink.

Or perhaps he was here to return to old habits after all. “They really rather overdo it with those visual effects, wouldn’t you say? Hard to feel much fear about the whole thing when it gets to such outlandish, over-egged extremes that it breaks immersion.”

“What _do_ you see on fear toxin?” Edward asked as if he’d heard nothing of what Oswald said. “Have you ever had the pleasure?”

“Still, it is good to witness Jonathan’s character getting a true chance to shine.” Oswald did a much poorer job of attempting to pretend he’d not heard Edward’s words.

Edward fixed him with a knowing smile.

Oswald sipped at his more steadying drink, trying to betray nothing as he set the glass back down in one of his deformed hands.

“...So, how long until I’m out of the ice, do you think?” Edward asked, turning his attention to the ice cube slowly melting between them and saying nothing more on it for the night.

As they had predicted, not long. They had expected it to be because someone needed the Riddler’s intellect or to sic him on Oswald, not-

“Dear. God,” Edward scorned incredulously of his real saviour on the show. “I’ll be glad when you kill her for stealing me, Oswald.”

“My, and here I thought you might find it fortuitously flattering to have such an avid, ardent admirer.”

“Hopefully you’ll get Zsasz to torture her first; I hope they show that part.”

As the weeks passed and the true effects of being put on ice were played out with painful clarity though, plus the increased presence of Ra’s al Ghul in the show-

“The rumours I’ve heard are true then?” Oswald asked very softly one night approaching closing, the two of them far from anyone else in the Lounge including staff. “You used one of Ghul’s Lazarus Pits because you had...”

Edward did an effective job of portraying nothing, such a complete lack of reaction that it, in effect, told Oswald everything he needed to know. “...Am I getting obvious?” he asked back uneasily, drink empty but hand around it to prevent any over-eager waitstaff getting the initiative to come and refill it.

They were sat in a corner of the upper area of the Lounge, looking down on the distant, unknowing crowds of normal civilians chattering away their lives at the tables and bars, downing alcoholic drinks and arranging impulsive one night stands they were sure to regret all of in the morning.

Oswald laid a hand on the covered sleeve of Edward’s forearm. “How old are you?”

He just shrugged. “Not as old as you, older than any of the others.” There were brief mutterings of how old Victor was again, if it was could even be counted with how his lowered temperature retarded his biology, before Edward simply admitted, “I forget. I remember the date but I forget how many years it’s been since then somehow; I don’t know how much time it took off me.”

“I’m guessing it would require quite the bribe to encourage you to share the location with me,” Oswald said, his friendly smile lifting and highlighting the faint creases developing around his mouth and eyes.

“Ra’s destroyed it, to make sure I wouldn’t be able to use it again or share its location with anyone.”

“Ah.” Oh well. What you never had, you never miss and all that. But... “It only turns the clock back, correct? What if you... I mean, when you get to that physical age again. Will you...?”

Edward shrugged almost imperceptibly this time. “I don’t know, Oswald. I just don’t know. I just hate seeing so many of the same symptoms on someone with my name.”

“He’s not you, Edward.”

“I know.” But one day, again, he could be.

Uncomfortably personal, for them both, that was what it was; such personal attachment in this sort of life only endangered emotions you could spare. Perhaps his counterpart on the show had the right idea, for all that regrettably made him slowly too tragic a character. He seemed to be written as a cautionary tale, although in which direction Oswald was unsure. Perhaps he ought to read and watch more interviews, find out how the writers and Robin were intending to ultimately use the inspiration they’d gotten from his life. He wasn’t sure he wanted to the more he thought about it though.

Oswald only felt right to return the favour of becoming recklessly candid  as more weeks passed, as Edward inevitably brought up, “So, any plans to adopt any orphans of your own any time soon?”

“Martín.” Edward had taken residence in one of the booths tonight, sat along its right side with his legs and more impolitely shoes stretched out along the upholstery. Oswald sat more properly beside him at the corner of the other side, too keenly aware of the empty space to his side compared to Edward. “It’s crossed my mind,” Oswald tried to reply lightly.

“Really?” Edward said it with one of his surprised, high, little laughs, the ones always with a hint of scoffing in. Or, in this case, a hint of ‘that doesn’t fit with my perception of you’ pride that was above such sentimentalism itself.

Why did Edward have to pick a booth tonight? They were far too cosy... “I always fancied fatherhood, in pure flights of fantasy of course. Not necessarily to have an heir,” he admitted, thinking of the show, “just to be able to make someone that happy simply by loving them, to give a purpose to my life beyond myself. To see my counterpart achieve that, enjoy it so...” He ceased stirring his drink, simply downing half too much instead.

Edward still looked rather blasé and unimpressed with the whole thing, frowning at his own untouched drink. “...They say people who were abused as children fall into one of two categories in regard to having children of their own: Half would never trust themself not to inflict the same damage on any child they were trusted with, whether they would like one or not.” He didn’t need to put a hand to his chest or anything such for Oswald to understand. “The other half want one desperately to give them everything they never received, all the love they had for their parents that they couldn’t safely in good conscience give.”

“Please,” Oswald scorned. “You think I was-?”

“I’ve read your Blackgate psychologist reports, Ozzie.”

The kind of rage that could break glass very nearly did so in Oswald’s hand, the highball only narrowly avoiding such a fate as Oswald employed the anger management techniques he’d learnt in those very same sessions. “How dare you-?!”

“I wanted to make sure I wouldn’t unknowingly say the wrong thing, at first to ensure successful business encounters between us but later as...” He trailed off in that petulant, almost ashamed way that admitted, even if he found it hard to, “I know that I have a habit of often...” saying the wrong thing, he exhaled rather than could actually say.

Indeed, and for all he could forgive Edward’s autistic difficulties now he was also a maturer man, back in the day...

Well, it was almost certain Edward had shared the information with no one but perhaps trusted others who wanted to avoid upsetting Oswald – Knowledge was power, an adage the Riddler typified perhaps too much – His Blackgate files had remained otherwise confidential, to his awareness. When Edward’s own ‘confidential’ files and recordings of his darkest secrets and feelings had been spread and shared as far and wide as people were willing to read them, not just in newspapers but TV and films, it hardly seemed fair to make too big a deal of it; anything said in Arkham found its way out as soon as any doctor or guard felt like they weren’t being paid quite enough and fancied a fat bung. You had to wonder if they even bothered with doctor-patient confidentiality clauses there anymore.

Oswald held on a moment longer before sighing away his anger, drowning it with his far too bright and cheerful mixed drink. He leant forward on the table with one elbow after setting the glass down, an intimate enough gesture to assure Edward he was forgiven and could stop skulking over in his corner with his head bowed. “Indeed, it’s as you say, Edward,” he admitted. “But however much I might like it, it’d simply be an act of cruelty to inflict my unfortunate genes on a child. Certain joys we must deny ourselves...”

“The only problem with how you are is the way ignorant, small-minded bastards treat you because of it, Oswald.” He couldn’t stop his eyebrows shooting up at Edward’s language; for all he swore sometimes, never had Oswald heard that level of word before or that vitriol it was said with. He was almost inclined to believe Edward had given up his teetotal principles tonight, but Edward was nothing if not someone who stuck ridiculously to rules of his own invention. “You’d excel as a father, far superior to 99% of the mindless, emotionally stunted gorillas that lay claim to that title.”

“Thank you,” Oswald supposed he should say, although painfully aware they were only ever going to be talking hypotheticals here. “I think most of all I’d fear them turning on me and hating me one day though, if not for my genes then the situation I brought them into inheriting my legacy and all the egregious enemies and verifiable vendettas it would come with. No,” he sighed over his drink that seemed far too small suddenly, “I’ve always been so selfish in my life; I’d like to be selfless for once, to have someone who inspired such a feeling in me. But I know the truly selfless behaviour in this instance is to forbid myself. It’s the way it must be, Edward.”

Edward uneasily scratched at one temple, considering these things in his own oft self-absorbed and naive way. “You’re selfless already, Oswald, or to your waitstaff here at least.” He gestured briefly round the lounge. “You treat them like family, your children even given the age of most.”

“Well, they’re not only here for their skills in service but also for their loyalty; there were very few individuals who would dare to work genuinely under someone like me after I reformed, rather than for the associations to fame or my wealth,” he defended. “They deserve it, for allowing me a true second chance I never thought I’d get.”

Edward simply looked at him for a moment, making his point. Then, more flippantly, “I could steal the actor for you, if you like.”

“You leave that boy alone,” Oswald warned him in equal levity.

“Find a real mute orphan from our own far-less-than-fair city then?” Edward suggested. “There’s certainly enough of them in this city; I think the Joker has filled up one or two orphanages by himself alone. Gotham could turn them into an export frankly.”

“No. Thank you, Edward.” He implored it to be dropped there before the jokes got even more tasteless.

Oswald moved the conversation on. He didn’t want to admit to Edward, by accident or design, that he had used the knowledge of fanfiction he’d gained to fill those lonely moments he sat upstairs in his luxury flat eating meals only ever cooked for one or staring into the unused spare room with reading the stories written about him and Martín. Mostly they also featured Edward as anything from a second father to the even cuter idea of a source of jealousy for Martín; that wasn’t so important, although the idea of having a co-parent to share it all with was a nice one.

Only stories, fitting to match what could only be daydreams.

As the season declined the watch-along parties grew less popular, although that could simply have been the novelty wearing off. Oswald himself had never had much more to offer than complimenting his own outfits/hairstyles and particular sneaky moves, or lamenting being the show’s emotional whipping boy again. Well, or bringing up when they might see this Edward Nygma in green spandex one evening when he was a little too comfortable beside Edward. As ever, Edward’s reply was, “That was for one series of crimes and it was a hot summer!” but Oswald knew he wasn’t the only one asking.

Edward’s comments fell mostly into pure literary criticism as his character wore on and managed to go careening backwards with his new ‘romance’ and apparent complete loss of independence. The funniest thing, not that Edward realised it, wasn’t the comments themselves but the increasingly incensed state he made them in as the ridiculous farce of a ‘relationship’ continued and for once in his life Edward began to plead against and dread attention being paid to him every time his counterpart appeared on-screen.

Harley and Ivy – Well, mostly Harley – cheered the fact she was, kind of, finally in the show. Jonathan and Jervis mostly heckled every character besides themselves like they were Statler and Waldorf from the Muppets, if not frequently commenting on their lack of inclusion in most episodes and deciding that was because their characters were off having sex somewhere. Victor Fries generally didn’t drop by. Selina generally did but her comments were always an utter wildcard.

As the season built towards its conclusion interest began to rise again. Season 4’s finale packed the Lounge once again. And once again Oswald found himself seated partner-less until just five minutes before the event began. “Afraid to see yet another of your lubricious love-interests knocked off their perch?” Oswald enquired when he finally had company.

“Why, Oswald; anyone would think you were jealous!” Edward faux-exclaimed.

It raised a chuckle. “Considering the fate of your love-interests on that show I’m perhaps glad you didn’t return my affections.”

Edward chuckled at that too. “Please. The only reason I can bear to be here is because they’re bound to finally put an end to this ridiculously contrived, utterly illogical ‘romance’ tonight one way or another. At this point I wouldn’t even mind if they killed me off to do it he’s become such an embarrassment to me!” He tutted. “And here I finally had hope for this one...”

“I still liked Jim Carrey’s version personally,” Jonathan piped up from behind.

“He did have that certain flagrant flamboyance that almost came close to matching the real thing,” Jervis agreed, both of them grinning like Cheshire Cats.

Oswald sighed as Edward turned around, rebuking them with such a loud and histrionic indignation that all the two did was cackle more, at least until Harley turned around and threw a nice, hard banana at Edward to, “Quit chattin’ already! It’s about ta start! And gimme back my banana!”

Oswald settled in while the banana was thrown back, Edward muttering to himself about a complete lack of respect even from his so-called friends. A patting on the shoulder from Oswald seemed to do little to help, but at least he stopped muttering so they could enjoy the show.

Nothing in Oswald’s actions on-screen surprised them, although he’d admit to a smile of proud pleasure at how, he believed the term was ‘badass’, his counterpart was.

Edward’s storyline though- Well, Edward was laughing so much at his finale that he fell off their shared seat. It was Jonathan that pointed out, wasn’t this idea of killing off a potential competitor for your paramour’s affections rather, oh, similar to a certain situation that very same character had disliked being on the receiving end of just last season? Edward, still down on the floor, had simply replied in an almost giddy voice, “They made me fucking _Romeo and Juliet_!” at the ludicrousness of the whole thing.

Oswald simply watched from their seat alone as his counterpart brought the two dead lovers to Strange to be revived, observing Edward’s ginger hair and rapt attention unnoticed from behind. He always was watching over the Riddler, one way or another, apparently.

Edward finally picked himself up from the floor as the credits began to roll, walking through the sea of chattering and theorising patrons like an unnoticed ghost. Oswald stood too, instantly accosted by fans who wanted to praise or gush over him for his character’s actions as well as the usual requests for autographs, selfies, opinions and the like. Tonight he pushed them all aside though, walking through the crowds alone.

Edward had retreated to one side of the penguins’ enclosure in the centre of the Lounge alone, nearly empty drink in hand. He downed the last as Oswald took the stool beside where he stood, raising an eyebrow in greeting.

They were facing the snack bar of the Lounge where the betting board was set up and still in sight, both men looking at it now and the odds that had slowly shifted between them, so much less optimistic now.

“There’s going to be a series 5,” Edward mentioned. “Although it’s rumoured to be a much shorter one, to the dismay of your profits I’m sure.”

“I’m sure,” Oswald agreed, smiling though.

“He said our ‘ship’ had sailed, Cory Michael Smith, that it was only a friend _ship_ in the first place.” He gave a very dignified but utterly scornful scoff. “And here I was even going to hack his phone to see how he’d do at a little riddle of mine. I don’t like him anymore.”

“What was the riddle?” Oswald asked.

“I have many parts and just as many names but only one face – What am I?”

While Edward’s fickle mood about his actor settled, Oswald considered and soon answered, “An actor.”

He was pleased by the bit of surprise on Edward’s face. “Correct!” He quickly turned a little scornful again, “It would only have been wasted on him.”

Oswald chuckled, gaze still on that betting board across the way. Edward’s joined him, both focusing on that ‘They’re just queerbaiting’ option so far in the lead now. “...Which would you have picked?” Oswald asked, having checked with his staff that Edward had never placed a bet on the topic.

“What about you?” Edward bounced back.

“You always need to be the one asking the questions, don’t you?” he mentioned without venom, looking over the board again. “...I expected you to die in my arms, just as with everyone else I had cared about in that show,” Oswald answered honestly. “I never get nice things in this life; why should that one be any different?” He looked to Edward now, not allowing him to weasel out of returning the favour. “It’s not a riddle; you’re allowed to be wrong, you know.”

Edward chewed on his lip, petulant about even the insinuation. But, “...They are hopeless and utterly inept writers, they’ve certainly proven now; I can’t be blamed for not being able to follow their complete lack of logic and sense.” His defence of his fantastic genius out of the way, and Oswald almost felt like waving a hand in circles to have him get on with it, “...I thought we’d get a happy ending. Or maybe hoped,” he admitted, quietly enough to ensure no one else but Oswald heard. Even Oswald wasn’t sure he had heard right. And moments later, “Now I believe I’d change my answer though – Jervis!” he shouted across the Lounge at a sudden, jarring volume.

“What is it, Dormouse?” Jervis shouted back, a little more dignified in using no surplus volume to do so.

“Are you still up for going to murder _Gotham’s_ writers?”

“Oh, certainly!” Jervis replied with enough levity no one present could truly believe he meant it. Whether he actually did, well they’d have to wait and see. Although he probably didn’t.

That little amount of shouting brought attention onto the two of them standing beside the penguin enclosure however. Edward dropped the hand he’d been using to enhance his voice to join his other one at his hips, surveying the room and the attention they were now commanding with an annoyed determination about him.

Oh no. Oswald knew that look...

“Everyone!” Edward shouted at the crowd still milling, only a few fans having left immediately when the credits rolled. “Oh, stop whatever pointless opinions you’re tediously inflicting on each other! As if mere average-minded commoners like you have anything worth saying on the matter!” he commanded more scornfully when he noticed he still didn’t have the complete attention of every, many now glaring, sets of eyes in the room.

“Yes, Edward, if you could please desist from insulting my customers...” Oswald mentioned, knowing it would have no effect.

“Get out your phones! Come on: phones, cameras – Get them out!” He gestured impatiently, refusing to move on until he’d seen a good majority of the crowd assembled comply with his demand. “Start recording or line up a good photo, everyone on me now!”

“My, I believe this is quite the abnormally apparent seeking of attention even for you, Edward,” Oswald commented, trying to temper the uncertain situation they were being thrust into with a little humour.

“Everyone ready?” Edward asked, ignoring him entirely. Until he was satisfied at least, “Good,” and then turned only to Oswald for a moment with a grin that made everything a hundred times more worrying. “Now, if you’ve got even half a passable level of sense you’ll be disappointed with the resolution _Gotham_ deigned to give us,” Edward announced, throwing an arm out towards the crowd and speaking with some scorn. Oswald only felt a growing ‘oh no’ at what he knew was about to happen, when Edward triumphantly declared to the few hundred audience members assembled that, “So, it’s about time we were all given the Nygmobblepot ending we deserved!”

To his credit Edward didn’t just grab Oswald by the back of the head and crash their lips together. It was a kiss more deserving of being called energetic than passionate, true. But Edward cupped both of Oswald’s cheeks as he pulled them together, noses brushing closely and his knocking into Oswald’s monocle slightly while their lips stayed pressed together for a good few seconds. Edward’s hands had been placed back towards the corners of his jaw, most likely to make the kiss as photogenically blatant as possible, but his fingers therefore covering Oswald’s ears blocked out most of whooping cheering and whatever comments the crowd was making, giving it a surprisingly private feel despite the situation.

Oswald found himself stood slightly on the crossbar of his stool when their lips parted and his eyes opened again, their height difference striking once again despite the height of his seat. Edward had only moved back a few inches, nothing but his emerald eyes sparkling with joy in view. Oswald turned his own gaze away slightly, cheeks flushing – And still held by Edward’s bare hands for whatever reason – as he muttered loudly enough for the audience to hear, through a smile, “Really, Edward. I do hope you know I feel like a bloody circus act right now...”

He may have made a fuss but they didn’t kiss twice for no reason, this time a little less clear in who initiated it.

That one lasted a second longer before Edward released him completely to turn back to the crowd, gesturing largely for them all to, “Get that out there on social media at _Gotham_! Tag them, tag the writers! We’ve only got one season left to get them to fix their idiotic, utterly brainless mistakes!”

Oswald stayed facing the penguin enclosure, one blushing cheek leant into a palm as Edward continued instructing the crowd and Harley started getting in on the act with him, trying to piggyback it with her own demands including getting her and Pamela together and making Jonathan and Jervis explicit – “Come on! We all know they’re doin’ it off-screen anyway!”

Well, at least the whole thing was rather progressive, and frankly unlikely to ever actually lead anywhere. He felt too good right in this moment to begrudge them a bit of fun.

Eventually the nonsense dispersed on its own, leaving the Lounge quiet and ready for an early closing time tonight. “Well,” a voice beside him announced itself, taking the adjacent seat.

Oswald finally pulled his face out of his hand to look at Edward sat beside him, simply smirking smugly now. “Well, indeed,” he agreed, a little more sharply but without actual malice.

“They enjoyed it and the Lounge got great publicity from it, particularly for the LGBT demographic.” Edward held up his hands in a shrug of innocence.

“If I didn’t know better I’d say you had placed a bet on us getting together and all _that_ was simply you shepherding a group of innocents into a pocket-padding ploy of yours.”

“Please. I don’t want it to actually work,” Edward dismissed. “You deserve better than that ridiculous pretender of a Riddler after all he’s done to you,” he said honestly.

“Well... thank you. So, what? It was simply an excuse to kiss yours truly?” Oswald dryly drawled.

“Oh?” Edward grinned. “Are you saying I don’t need an excuse?”

Oswald sighed, dragging himself off his seat to head upstairs to his suite for the night. Already he was holding one hand to his temple, rubbing slightly.

But of course his torment wasn’t over; he’d hardly gotten ten steps before long arms were around his shoulders, walking with him at a perfectly matched pace. “Oh, Ozzie! You’re not going to make me walk home alone this late at night in a city like this, are you?”

“Leaving aside you’re part of the reason people don’t feel safe walking home this late at night in this city, fine,” Oswald sighed again, trying to end this with simple appeasement no matter the cost. “If you _insist_ , the bed in the spare room is dressed and ready-”

“Oh, but then you’ll have to wash all those sheets just for one night little, old me spent in it! Wouldn’t it make much more sense simply for me to share _your_ bed tonight?”

“Edward-”

“I know it’s large; I’ve seen it before, remember?” Edward leaned round to give him a deliberately flirtatious wink.

“Edward,” Oswald said, casting his gaze very deliberately at his staff still present and able to hear every word they were saying. He took a good look at them, then at Edward’s mischevious glee imploring him to just agree already, come on, you know I won’t give up until you say ‘yes’. He threw one more glance at his staff, then surrendered to agreeing, “Oh, very well. If you must insist on a _slumber party_ , of all things, at your age...”

“‘ _Slumber party_ ’,” Edward somehow managed to repeat mockingly, succeeding in dropping and entwining one of his hands with Oswald’s to let himself be led upstairs for the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to popular demand, this fic now has a second story that continues the series (And a third to round out the series) that will answer the riddle if that was a real kiss or just a stunt.


End file.
